An Unholy Sonnet

Rebooting John Donne's 'Holy Sonnet V' for our Modern Machine Age

Since my last piece, and since reading

Jason M Baxter

’s book Why Literature Still Matters (and re-reading it - it is very, very good) I could not get Donne’s sonnet out of my head. And I could not stop wondering what it would look like if I took my twisted, modern version of his sonnet’s first line all the way to the end. It felt good to challenge myself to write something like this, and I think the end result is both accurate and terrifying. It is not a beautiful sonnet, but it isn’t meant to be. I don’t think it could be beautiful, and that alone is something worth noticing as we consider what our modern metaphors of metal and machine might be doing to our souls.

For context, here is Donne’s sonnet:

Holy Sonnet V
John Donne

I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic sprite,
But black sin hath betray'd to endless night
My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more.
But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire
Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler; let their flames retire,
And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.

Here is my modernization of it:

Unholy Sonnet
by John Donne

I am a little machine made cunningly
Of pieces, parts, and processes systemized,
But cruel Time hath betrayed to endless night
My machine and oh, all its systems must die.
You which mysteries demystify, analyze and quantify,
Who unmake heaven, filling cold space with noises white --
Make new mechanisms mine that I might
Drown out my soul's weeping earnestly
And kill Time if it cannot be ignored.
But oh, I burn within; alas the fire
Of love and beauty burn me to my core
And melt my systems in their heat; let distractions rewire
And process me, O Machine, on the wheels and gears
Of thee and thy fact'ry, which in assembling breaks and tears.